


FOREVER—LOVE YOU—I

by Eudoxia



Series: Give Me a Sign (of Your Love) [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: American Sign Language, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Porn, Identity Reveal, M/M, Mute Tony Stark, Pining, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Steve Rogers gives great hugs, Tony Stark Has Self-Esteem Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, author shows up five years late with 8k of pure brutal YEARNING, i can't believe i started the mute tony tag, mute character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:07:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23562784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eudoxia/pseuds/Eudoxia
Summary: Tony Stark is twenty-one when he loses his voice. It shouldn't matter, but in a world where the first words your Soulmate says to you are marked on your skin, it can be pretty damn annoying.Especially for Tony's soulmate.--Companion piece to my fic Thumb, Index, and Pinky Extended. This is Steve's POV, with a few extra scenes, as a treat.(Edit: Sorry if you guys get multiple notifications for this. I just realized (about two hours after posting it) that I fucked up the grammar in the title and I HAD to fix it. YOLO, I guess.)
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: Give Me a Sign (of Your Love) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1695925
Comments: 134
Kudos: 1291





	FOREVER—LOVE YOU—I

**Author's Note:**

> Heeeeyyyyy guys...
> 
> So, like, this took about five years longer than I wanted it to... I wrote this in three days. Who knew the quarantine could be so productive??
> 
> Hope y'all suffer and love it in equal measure!!! :D 
> 
> Also, I don't _think_ you need to read the first part to understand this one, but it would probably be super beneficial if ya did.
> 
> (Edit: Sorry if you guys get multiple notifications for this. I just realized (about two hours after posting it) that I fucked up the grammar in the title and I HAD to fix it. YOLO, I guess.)

**Steve**

**Steve**

**I love you**

**I love you**

**Steve**

_“Holy shit! Those are your First Words? Who’d ever love a runt like you?”_

_“Wow… your soulmate certainly is… enthusiastic…”_

_“Captain America! Captain America, I love you! I love you, Captain America!”_

_“You’ll find them one day, Steve. You’ll find them and they’ll love_ you _. These words, they say ‘_ Steve _’. not ‘Captain’, not ‘Cap’, but ‘_ Steve. _’ Have faith in_ that _, if nothing else.”_

—

“Mister Stark,” Steve says, awkward as ever in the presence of beauty. “They tell me you’re mute.”

It’s not so much that Stark’s face changes as that the very air in the room seems to congeal, heavy and thick and cold. But then, as quickly as it came, the feeling disappears, brushed away by Stark’s soft sigh.

Before Steve can try to force his foot farther down his throat with an apology, Stark flashes through a series of hand signs. A British sounding voice issues from Stark’s breast pocket, _“Nice to meet you, Captain Rogers.”_

From the head of the conference table, Fury says, “Now that you’ve met, let’s get this thing started.”

Steve blinks. Pointing to Stark, he says, “Wait—What was that?”

“Don’t get him started, Rogers,” Fury tries to say but that British voice interrupts. 

_“I am called JARVIS. I’m an artificial intelligence created by Anthony Stark to act as a translator in Sir’s everyday communications.”_

Steve is absolutely fascinated. “How does it work?”

Stark chuckles like an engine revving.

—

Steve is… obsessed. And he really wishes there was a better word to describe his feelings about his predicament than that. Or, at least, one with fewer negative connotations. 

He doesn’t think much of it at first. A handful of drawings of Stark’s neck can be explained away as a somewhat morbid fascination with the aesthetic beauty of his scars. A few drawings of Stark’s hands is just practice because hands are terribly intricate and far too easy to—as the French would put it—utterly fuck up. 

Besides, it’s not as if Steve isn’t also drawing the other people he’s met in this new future either: he’s got a few pages of Natasha’s curls; the intricate lines of Ironman’s mask; Hawkeye’s arms as he practices his shooting; Dr. Banner hunched over a work station; Wasp’s board and carefree smile; Pepper’s stern frown and Happy’s beefy back; Agent Coulson’s receding hairline; the intricate carving of mjolnir. But, by and large, most pages of his new sketchbooks seem to be taken up by warm brown eyes and a playful, knowing smirk. 

Sometimes he’ll find a page or two of Stark’s hands: a pinky stuck out as his wrist moves in a swooping motion, his usual signal for when he wants JARVIS’s attention; Stark brushing his spayed fingertips against his chest with an upward motion, his face looking like he’d rather be doing anything else than whatever Pepper had been badgering him into at the time; Stark’s fingers tapping at his own surprisingly defined shoulder, a sign that Steve’s come to learn means ‘captain’ (a sign which Stark tends to follow up by moving his hand in a circular motion around his face with his index and middle fingers held out like they’re taped together. Steve has yet to figure out what that one means but Clint seems to tip his head back and laugh everytime he sees Stark use it). 

Too often though, he’ll find pages and pages of Stark’s face, neck, shoulders, arms. Stark’s everything, drawn from memory and immortalized in charcoal, ink, graphite in the pages of Steve’s notebooks. 

He’s suddenly terrified of misplacing one and having his secret exposed.

—

Steve, as with most romantic inclinations in his life, has no idea what to do about it. So he does what he usually does when it comes to his love life: he flounders. 

“What about you, Cap?” 

Steve blinks, coming back into the conversation a minute late and a foot behind. “What was that?” He asks, carefully closing his sketchbook. 

“I _said_ ,” Natasha laughs, stretching a foot out from where she’s seated on the couch to poke at Steve’s thigh. “Do you have anyone _special_ in your life? Hmm?”

Steve raises an eyebrow, sparing a second to try to decide if Natasha is actually drunk on the two post-battle beers she’s had or just pretending. But then her words really catch up to him. 

Steve feels his face heat and he glances towards the doorway, as if Stark’s going to walk through it at any second. 

“Uhm,” Steve clears his throat, eyes trailing back to his closed notebook. This one is completely full of Stark’s hands, all of them mid-motion, some of them labeled with the signs Steve’s been able to pick up. A few he’s sure on are the signs for ‘shield’ (one arm raised, hand fisted, as if blocking an attack at chest height while the other hand makes an open palmed, upward arching motion over it), ‘tech’ (one hand held at an angle across the chest while tapping at the flashy edge of the palm with the middle finger of the other hand while splaying out the other fingers), and ‘no’ (the index and middle fingers making a single open-closed motion towards the thumb). Stark mostly directs the last one towards his bots, thankfully.

“No,” Steve finally answers. He clears his throat before continuing, “Not really.”

The room at large seems to sputter.

Janet laughs loudest, “Wait, wait! What the hell’s that supposed to mean? ‘Not really’?” 

Steve shrugs, avoiding everyone’s incredulous looks. “Means what I said.”

“Ooooo,” Natasha coos, shoving her leg out to poke at Steve again. “What’s her name?”

Steve doesn’t answer, staring at the far wall and twisting his pencil ‘round and ‘round in his hands, his jaw ticking.

“Oh,” Natasha says. Nodding, she pulls away from where she’s lounging against Clint. She rests her elbows in her knees and leans into Steve’s space. “What’s _his_ name?”

Steve’s eyes cut to Natasha before he can stop them. She’s smirking, like she usually does when she knows she’s got the upper hand.

Steve feels gutted, like a sharp knife’s cut in and spayed all his very well-kept secrets all across the floor. A cold, tight band snaps across his chest, pulling tighter with every heartbeat. He surveys the room: exits, furniture, number of people, their strengths and weaknesses. It won’t be the first time he’s had to fight his way out of a room because his affections don’t tend towards the fairer sex. At least this time he’ll have the muscles to survive it unassisted.

From the corner of his eye he can see Ironman stand and leave the room. While part of the dismissal hurts, at least Steve won’t have to worry about fighting ol’ Shellhead. 

Steve jerks suddenly, head snapping over to Natasha again. 

“Steve,” she says, gently, one hand still outstretched from where she’d touched Steve’s knee. “Steve, it’s okay. This is another one of those things that’s changed since you went into the ice. I apologize. I wasn’t thinking and I shouldn't have teased you like that. Homosexuality is accepted nowadays.”

Steve hums, nodding, but his chest is still in a vise. He hasn’t had an asthma attack since the forties but this feels damn close. 

“Well,” Steve manages to force out, “that’s mighty swell. If you’ll excuse me.” 

He stands before anyone can say otherwise. Grabbing his notebook—head held high and not a single breath taken—Steve marches from the room. 

Rounding a corner, he forces himself to breathe, calm and measured, just like his mother taught him, until his chest finally loosens. 

His feet carry him where they will. He finds himself standing at the glass doors of Stark’s lab. 

It’s almost like a punch to the gut after getting sucker punched. A two for one. 

Perfect.

Steve should really leave. But he also wants to be alone right now—or at least away from the team—and Stark’s lab is perhaps the most secluded spot in the entire mansion. No one would look for him here. And, somewhat bitterly, Steve thinks, _It’s not like Stark’s gonna try talking to me about anything_. Steve immediately follows the thought up with a self-directed, _Don’t be an asshole, asshole._

Before he can think better of it, Steve knocks on one of the glass doors. 

Stark, sitting at his work bench, hunched over an Ironman suit to look for repairs, waves him in. He signs something quickly.

Once Stark’s hands still, JARVIS asks, _“What can I do for you, Captain?”_

Steve shrugs a shoulder. “Just… needed somewhere a little less crowded. You don’t mind if I join you for a bit, do you?”

Stark looks confused but nods, waving a hand as if to say _help yourself_. He flashes through a quick set of hand signs that Steve has no hope of following. 

_“Something on your mind?”_ JARVIS asks for his creator.

Steve shrugs again and, tight lipped, says, “Don’t really want to talk about it right now. Do you mind if I just sit in a corner? I promise not to get underfoot.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Stark gestures to the small corner of his workshop that Steve’s heard referred to as ‘The Crash Zone’ simply because, as Pepper has said, Stark uses it ‘to crash out’ and take naps between bouts of working on the Avengers’ gear. 

Sometimes, Steve doesn’t think Stark does anything _except_ work on tech for the Avengers. If he hadn’t’ve seen Stark roaming the halls in search of coffee for himself, he’d think Stark never came up from the lab at all. 

_“Feel free.”_

“Thank you, Mister Stark,” Steve says, turning to sit.

_“Don’t call me that.”_

Steve stops and turns back. Facing Stark again, he asks, “Don’t call you what?”

_“‘Mister Stark.’ Don’t call me ‘Mister Stark.’ Mister Stark is my father and my father was an asshole. Just call me Tony.”_

Steve nods, licking his suddenly dry lips. He spends a moment staring into Stark’s eyes trying to decide how sincere the other man is. He remembers meeting Howard Stark. But, while ‘asshole’ isn’t the word he’d use to describe the man, he can understand how the years could have changed him. In the end, time changes everyone.

“Okay,” Steve says, stomach flipping. “Tony it is.”

Tony smiles like he won something precious. Steve does his best to commit the image to his memory, so he can sketch it out later. 

Before he can stop himself, he says, “You know, you can call me by my first name, too. If—if you want to. You don’t have to call me Captain all the time.”

Tony hums like sandpaper scratching and wags a finger at Steve before flashing through another series of signs.

_“Names don’t really exist in American Sign Language. You’d have to spell out everyone’s name. It’s easier just to give people nicknames.”_

“Oh,” Steve says. “So, my nickname is Captain?”

Tony points at him and winks, making a clicking sound with his cheek.

Before he can overthink it, Steve grabs a wheeled stool and drags it over. “Does everyone have a nickname?”

Tony nods but then he squints at Steve, pursing his lips and leaning back on his own stool to leer at him.

_“I thought you said you didn’t want to talk.”_

Steve offers a quick smile. “This isn’t what I didn’t want to talk about, so I think we’re okay.”

Tony grinds out another hum and speeds through a handful of signs.

_“‘Happy’ and ‘Pepper’ are already nicknames but Rhodey is ‘Brother’. Natasha is ‘Widow’, Janet is ‘Bee’, Bruce is ‘Green’, Thor is ‘Hammer’, and, depending on how much he’s pissing me off at the moment, Clint is either ‘Hawk’ or ‘Asshole’.”_

Steve shorts before he can think better of it. “‘Asshole’? Really?”

Tony grins and shrugs.

_“Can you honestly say Clint doesn’t deserve it sometimes? Besides, JARVIS usually automatically translates the nicknames into their given names anyway.”_

“Yeah,” Steve agrees slowly, “but doesn’t Clint _know_ sign language?”

Tony’s aching laughter sounds more like a wheeze and Steve can’t help studying the mirth on the other man’s slowly pinking face. 

Tony makes a knocking motion with one hand while he wipes away tears with the other.

“The knocking, that means ‘yes’ right?”

Tony nods and then signs something else.

_“Haven’t you seen me and Clint signing? His nickname for me is ‘dick’ so I really don’t feel bad.”_

Before Steve can respond, Tony continues signing, somewhat hesitantly at first. 

_“When Ironman was dropping off the suit, he told me what happened upstairs. I just want to let you know that you’re always welcome here, no matter what. Besides, it’d be a little hypocritical of me if I kicked you out or anything like that.”_

Steve stills, first in dread, and then in shock. 

“Hyp—hypocritical?”

Tony nods, a hand coming up to rub at his neck, at the scar that sits just under his left ear. He takes a deep breath and then starts signing again.

_“When it comes to relationships or lovers or whatever, I don’t care about gender. Male, female, whatever they want to be called. I’m more interested in the person than in the package.”_

“Oh,” Steve says as he starts tapping his pencil against the tabletop. “The—um... the only woman I’ve ever been even a little attracted to was Peggy Carter.”

Steve glances at Tony to see the man’s shocked face. Then, Tony’s face scrunches, as if he’s sucking on a sour candy. He crosses his arms, leans towards the table, then leans back again before uncrossing his arms to sign.

_“If I remember correctly, all the news articles I’ve read have rumored that Peggy was the love of your life.”_

Steve’s lips twist. With a somewhat bitter laugh, he says, “I’m sure we both know how accurate the media can be. It was only slightly more reliable in the forties.”

Tony nods, a tight noise caught in his throat.

Steve continues, “Besides, I think I mostly liked how fierce Peggy was. She wasn’t afraid to speak what was on her mind and she certainly wasn’t afraid to punch someone who gave her shit. She probably would have made an amazing Captain America, too, if Project Rebirth wasn’t run by a bunch of old white men in the nineteen-forties.”

Tony tips his head back and wheezes through another bout of laughter. 

Steve’s eyes trace over the scar to the right of Tony’s Adam’s apple. He already knows he’s going to be drawing this later. 

—

Steve doesn’t quite remember how the topic got started. Someone must have asked about soulmarks or mentioned them in some other way. Maybe Janet? She and Hank are a Matched Pair after all. 

Someone had asked, though, to the room at large, what their Words were. 

Steve shifts, uncomfortable. His words are… well, in the various categories that Words can be sorted into, his are considered Strange. Words that don’t quite fit into any other category since they’re not obviously a Greeting, a Prompt, a Response, or a Request. At best, the frantic confession could be considered a Response, but even then, they don’t give the impression of a proper Response. They’re not answering a question or returning a greeting. They’re part of the dreaded fifth category, Strange, only surpassed in despair by the sixth category.

“Nah,” Clint says, leaning an elbow on the table and resting his head on his fist. “I’m a Blank.”

The whole room quiets.

“I’m so sorry,” Janet whispers.

Clint shrugs. “It’s fucked up, but I’m used to it. The whole soulmate shit is fucked up anyway. It basically just shits on the whole Deaf/Hard of Hearing and mute communities. You only get a soulmark if you can hear your soulmate’s voice with your own ears or if they have a voice to speak it to you? That’s fucked up. How are we supposed to find our soulmates? How are we supposed to know? Hell, with me being deaf and Tony here being mute, we could be a Matched Pair and never know it.”

Across the table, Tony snorts into his coffee, shaking his head furiously.

_“You’re not pretty enough for me, asshole. Besides, you forget that_ I _have a soulmark and it is definitely not the First Words you said to me.”_

“Oh, yeah?” Clint asks, arms crossing. “What are your Words then, oh, Mister High Standards?”

Tony snorts, not dignifying Clint with a response. But, after a moment’s consideration, he stands and lifts his shirt. 

There, wedged in the curve between his fifth and sixth ribs on his left side are the words, _Mister Stark, they tell me you’re mute._

Steve’s heart stutters to a stop in his chest. Then, it suddenly picks up at triple time, tripping over itself in an effort to beat right out of his chest.

Those are his! Those are _his_ Words on Tony’s side! He said that! And he remembers it clearly because the visceral embarrassment he felt from the interaction still lingers in the back of his mind, years later. 

He opens his mouth to embarrass himself again but Clint cuts him off.

“Damn, Stark, how many times have you heard that?”

Tony sits, face scrunching for a moment before he starts counting on his fingers. He shows Clint what looks like an ‘OK’ sign.

Clint whistles and says, “Nine? Nine times? _Nine times_ nine _different_ strangers have greeted you with that? Any of them Blanks?”

Tony shrugs and gives the table at large a rueful smile. 

_“No idea. Didn’t see the point in asking.”_

Steve blinks down at his cuff. From one moment to the next, it’s like the rug’s been pulled out from under him and, while trying to catch his balance, someone’s pushed him down a set of stairs.

Steve isn’t a Blank. His soulmate is still out there somewhere. Tony’s Words aren’t his, even though he said them.

What a cruel game the fates play.

Steve clears his throat. Not meeting anyone’s eyes, he says, “I’m gonna go hit the gym. If anyone wants to join me… feel free.”

Steve decides to see how many punching bags he can destroy before he feels better. 

He runs out of punching bags.

—

Steve is getting tired of not knowing. He’s tired of sitting across from the most gorgeous man to ever exist and feeling lost every time he asks a question. He’s tired of waiting for JARVIS to translate. 

Unfortunately, he also feels too exposed to ask Pepper, or Rhodey, or, god forbid, Clint to help teach him how to sign so he does what any self-respecting man with a crush would do: he goes to the library.

He starts at the library in the mansion, checking to see if there are any ASL books kept on those shelves. Disappointingly, there aren’t many. The Stark Library seems to be mostly engineering books, novels, and other various reference material. 

Steve figures he can always go to one of the libraries in the city but, before driving all the way out there, decides to see what he can find online.

The answer is: too much.

There are far too many websites to look through about learning ASL. Some advertising classes and others touting ‘teach yourself with these basics!’

One website reads: ‘ASL is not English. ASL is its own language and because of that a few things need to be acknowledged before your trip into learning Sign begins.

‘First, let's go over what’s called “ASL gloss.” Since ASL isn't a written language and isn’t English, any written signs are denoted in all capital letters such as TODAY, STORE, or BOAT. These capitalized words are ASL gloss.

‘Second, ASL has its own grammatical structure. In fact, it has two. The first is _Time + Topic + Comment + Referent_ and the second is _Topic + Comment + Referent_ where ‘Time’ is the tense of the sentence (such as past, future, or present tense), ‘Topic’ is the subject of the sentence, ‘Comment’ is what is being said about the subject, and ‘Referent’ refers to the subject about which you are talking. 

‘An example, in ASL gloss, would be: TOMORROW VACATION GO I. In English, this could be read as: ‘I’m going on vacation tomorrow.’

‘As you can see, the same signs for a word are used regardless of sentence tense. It is for this reason that the ‘Time’ must go at the beginning of the sentence.

‘As a Quick Tip: when a question is asked in ASL, the qualifiers WHO, WHAT, WHEN, WHERE, WHY, and WHICH are placed at the end of the sentence or at both the beginning _and_ the end.’

_Okay_ … Steve thinks, _this is going to be a little harder than I thought_. 

Luckily, Steve is nothing if not stubborn.

By the time Steve figures out that there are actual _dialects_ to ASL and _abbreviated signs_ , he’s beyond grateful that Pepper is at the mansion so often. She’s a surprisingly kind and patient teacher when it comes to anyone who isn’t trying her patience, such as Tony. 

—

“You seem to be spending quite a lot of time down in Mr. Stark’s lab lately. Anything I should know about?”

Ironman’s electronic voice catches Steve off guard. 

Placing the bar back on the bench press, Steve looks up to where Ironman’s been spotting him for the last twenty minutes.

“What?” Steve asks intelligently as he moves to sit up.

“I’m his bodyguard when I’m not doing Avengers business. Figured it’d probably be good to know when and why people are hanging around him.”

Steve grabs his water bottle, stalling for time as he scrambles for any reason other than, ‘I think I’m in love with your boss.’ For some reason, he doesn’t think that would go down too well. 

They say the best lie is the lie closest to the truth.

With a shrug, Steve finds himself saying, “He just… seems a little lonely. I hardly ever see him at the movie nights or the team building exercises. He’s always just down in his lab with his robots. I know what it’s like to be lonely like that. No one deserves to be that alone.”

Ironman grunts something and nods before leaving.

Watching his retreating back, Steve gets the sudden feeling that he upset his friend with his answer.

With nothing better to do, Steve showers and decides to head down to see Tony. 

As Steve walks into the lab, he spots Tony standing in the small kitchenette, raking his hands through his hair with his back towards the door. He looks like he’s shaking. 

“You okay, Tony?” Steve asks as he approaches, concerned.

Tony whirls around and shoves at Steve’s shoulders.

Not expecting it, Steve stumbles, managing to catch himself on the edge of a workbench.

Steve doesn’t recognize Tony’s first sign, but he knows the small hand motion that forms NEED, catches Tony’s head shake to make it DON’T NEED, sees Tony point to himself, and then another string of signs he doesn’t quite catch.

JARVIS translates, _“I don’t need your pity. And I don’t appreciate it, either.”_

Steve doesn’t know exactly what Tony means by that, but he can guess that either Ironman mentioned their conversation to Tony or that maybe Tony had even requested his bodyguard ask Steve about his increasing presence in the lab. 

It hurts, a little, that Tony doesn’t feel comfortable asking Steve directly, if that is indeed the case, but Steve pushes all thoughts of Tony’s motivation to the back of his mind. He has to address something else first.

Steve circles his fist over his chest. SORRY. 

Steve continues, “It’s not pity, Tony. I don’t pity you. I—I genuinely enjoy your company. You’re smart and funny and probably the most compassionate person I’ve ever met. I had hoped that you were at least considering me a friend but… but if I’m infringing on your space down here, I can leave. Just say the word. It’s just…” Steve sighs, “Most days, it seems like the lab is the only place in the whole mansion where I can find some peace and just be myself. Without any expectations of being Captain America, too.”

Tony looks like Steve sucker punched him. Confused, Tony asks, WHY?

Steve can’t decide if Tony is asking why he finds the lab peaceful or why Steve doesn’t pity him. The thought that Tony is asking why Steve would want to be his friend doesn’t even cross his mind.

Shrugging, Steve offers a small smile, “I dunno, I just do.”

Tony’s eyes well with unshed tears. He makes a choked noise in the back of his throat and nods, blinking rapidly. He holds both hands out with the backs of his hands up, pinkies and thumbs extended, and makes a downward motion with his right hand. Then, he runs another hand through his hair and turns around to disappear into the back of his lab.

STAY, Tony had signed.

Steve nods to himself. Chewing at his bottom lip, he spares another glance at Tony’s retreating back. He wants to go over and offer Tony some sort of comfort, but he gets the feeling that imposing anymore of his presence on the younger genius would be unwanted. Instead, he heads to what has become his usual corner in the lab and grabs at the sketchbook he leaves wedged on a nearby shelf. 

He thinks about what he knows about Tony. About how the man lost both his parents and his voice on the same night at only twenty-one. About how it seems that his closest friends are his college roommate, an ex-girlfriend, his own assistant, and his two hired bodyguards. He thinks about how he calls his dad an asshole and how he was betrayed and nearly killed by the only other father figure he’d ever had. He thinks about the small arc reactor in the glass case that says, _‘Proof That Tony Stark Has a Heart’_.

Steve wonders if Tony doesn’t have many friends by design or by choice. He’d like to be considered among that small number.

Some hours later, Steve sets down his sketchbook and makes his way to where Tony’s welding some mystery component of Ironman’s suit. 

Hesitant to break the silence, Steve reaches out and gently touches Tony’s shoulder. Before losing his nerve, Steve signs, DINNER.

Tony’s mouth twists like he’s annoyed at being pulled from his work, but he gives a grinding sigh and nods, allowing himself to be dragged from the lab. 

—

Some weeks later, Steve is seated in Tony’s lab again when Tony suddenly knocks his knuckles on his workbench. 

Steve looks over to see Tony standing by the open circuitry of one of Black Widow's gauntlets. Seeing he has Steve’s attention, Tony asks, WHO—SIGN—TEACH—YOU—WHO?

Tony forms the signs at maybe half the speed he usually does, the forms careful and obviously intentional. JARVIS doesn’t bother to translate.

Steve blushes. For some reason, the thought that eventually Tony would ask about his use of ASL never crossed his mind. What an oversight.

Still red faced, Steve stutters through his response. He signs, ME... INTERNET.

Tony chuckles, a deep gravelly sound, and signs, J. NOW—TEACH—HELP—CAPTAIN.

_“Of course, Sir. I’d be honored to assist Captain Rogers in his endeavor to master American Sign Language.”_ JARVIS responds.

“Th-thanks, JARVIS,” Steve manages.

When Steve looks back at Tony, he looks excited. 

Tony signs, slowly and with great care, NOW—COME HERE—YOU. 

Steve can’t help the small grin that slides across his face as he stands and makes his way to Tony. 

THERE—SIT, Tony signs, pointing to one of his wheeled stools. He grabs another seat and sits himself down next to Steve. His grin is almost blinding as he starts to share a handful of his favorite signs. 

Tony is shockingly patient with Steve, slowing his usual rapid-fire pace to something that gives Steve time to understand the sign before he moves on to the next one and taking the time to fingerspell the meaning of any sign that Steve doesn’t know yet. 

Steve’s chest feels like it’s about to burst open in the best way. 

—

Steve tries desperately to forget that he has a soulmate. 

But the cuff he constantly wears is a fitting reminder that somewhere in the universe exists a being who will eventually speak to him for the first time and utterly ruin the happiness he finds every moment he presses his lips against Tony’s. 

Their first kiss is shared over the open spinal circuitry of an Ironman suit. Steve had been watching Tony’s lips form soundless words for the better part of an hour, pouring over some problem he’d encountered. Steve had been trying to focus on a sketch of a cathedral’s stained glass he remembered from the war. But every low hum or coarse grunt drew his eyes further and further away from the pages of his book and closer and closer to Tony’s workbench until he suddenly found himself standing across from the other man and leaning in. It was like fireworks.

Steve still thinks of it now, weeks later, laying in Tony’s king size bed, sheets tangled around their hips. Thinks about how Tony had simply signed, AGAIN, and there was nothing Steve could do to resist. 

Steve can’t imagine that any unknown soulmate could ever make him feel as lightheaded and giddy as Tony does. Can’t imagine filling sketchbook after sketchbook full of intimate moments—a head tipped back in bliss, a face scrunched in passion, a hand wrapped around a hard and leaning cock—of anyone _but_ Tony. 

He doesn’t want to, either. 

But even as he buries his face in Tony’s sweat covered neck, he has to acknowledge the fact that not only does he have a soulmate out there somewhere, but so does Tony. 

Tony, who’s already had _nine_ people say his Words to him, Steve among them. Tony, who—out of everyone Steve knows—most deserves to meet his soulmate, deserves the fabled happiness that comes with meeting your fated other half. Tony, whose soulmate must be Blank. 

Yet Steve—as he presses reverent kisses against Tony’s soulmark, pretending that the words there are _his_ —wishes desperately that he was Blank, too.

Steve’s cuff chafes something awful.

—

It’s possibly the fifth time they’ve had sex that Steve realizes Tony is consciously muffling himself. 

Tony’s face is buried in Steve’s neck—his weight pressing Steve to the bed, his cock making Steve see stars—when Steve realizes that Tony’s pressing his lips to his neck not to kiss or bite or lick, but to quiet his own pleasured groans. 

“Tony,” Steve gasps, pushing at his shoulders. “Tony,” he has to repeat before the other man raises up to give him a confused look.

“Everything’s fine,” Steve reassures as he cups Tony’s face in his hands. He presses a kiss to his lover’s lips before asking, “Are you holding yourself back?”

Tony shakes his head, looking adorably confused. He shifts his weight, trying to adjust so his knees can support him in order to free his hands from where they’re currently tangled in the bed sheets. 

“Wait,” Steve says before he rolls his hips, flipping their positions so he can straddle Tony. He groans, sinking further into Tony’s cock. 

Steve rolls his hips helplessly, grinding until he gets Tony’s cock where he needs it most. He takes a moment to relish Tony’s gasp and then stops, waiting for Tony to look at him again. The genius purses his lips together, obviously dissatisfied with the loss of movement. He drags his hands up Steve’s sides, hips to shoulders and back down again, encouragingly.

Steve rolls his hips twice more before stilling again. He braces his hands on Tony’s chest, on either side of the softly glowing arc reactor. 

“Tony,” Steve says, “you know I love all the sounds you make while we’re making love, right?”

Tony blinks at him owlishly, fingers tightening against his sides. His lips twist and he looks away to stare at the far wall. Frowning. Jaw tight. 

_He doesn’t believe me_ , Steve realizes, shocked. It’s either that or Tony still feels awkward about Steve insisting that every time they have sex they’re making love and not just fucking. (‘There’s no love in fucking,’ Steve had said, ‘and what I feel for you is far more than a simple fuck.’)

Half furious, Steve says, “If I ever find the person who told you that the sounds you make aren’t the most beautiful noises in the world, I’m going to punch them in the face.” 

Steve punctuates his promise with a harsh roll of his hips. His own quiet gasp is lost in Tony’s choked groan. 

“I love the sounds you make, Tony,” Steve says, leaning down to drag his lips across Tony’s cheek as his hips keep up their vicious pace. “I love knowing that what I’m doing is making you feel good. I love knowing that you’re enjoying yourself.”

Tony grinds out a desperate keen, hands grabbing at the nape of Steve’s neck, pressing their foreheads together and keeping Steve close.

“Yes,” Steve hisses as Tony’s thrusts take on an urgent edge. Begging, he says, “Please. I want to hear you come.”

The noise Tony makes is brutal, throaty, and breathless.

Steve gasps through his own needy climax, hips twitching and grinding until, exhausted, he presses kisses along Tony’s cheek to bury his face in the other man’s neck.

Steve gently detangles himself and, uncaring of the mess, curls against Tony’s sweaty side, tucking his head under Tony’s chin. 

While they catch their breath, Steve trails his fingers along the spider webbing of scars on Tony’s chest. 

After a moment, Steve says, “I was serious, you know.”

Tony hums, too low to hear but, with Steve’s head pressed against his chest, the vibration is easily felt.

“The sounds you make,” Steve says, quietly. “I like them. You hum along to songs in the lab sometimes when you’re happy. I like knowing that you’re happy.”

Tony makes a soft, wet sound and pulls away, rolling into his side.

Steve stares at Tony’s broad back, watches as Tony inhales in quiet fits and starts. Steve realizes he may have pushed too hard, too fast. Eventually, he’ll get Tony to accept the fact that he is loved. He’s got years ahead of himself to do it. 

For now, Steve scoots closer, whispers, “Can I hold you?” and wraps his arms around Tony, pulling him to his chest, when Tony simply nods in response.

— 

Steve is starting to get worried.

“Ironman,” he orders. “Report.”

Nothing. 

The fact that one of their most mouthy members hasn’t given so much as a ‘by your leave’ in the last five minutes is concerning. The fact that Ironman is also one of their most self-sacrificing members makes it even more worrisome.

Steve tries a different tack. 

“Thor, Wasp, any sign of Ironman?”

“Nothing yet, Cap,” Janet says. “I’ll keep my eyes out.”

Steve grunts an affirmative as he punches one of the—well, Steve’s not exactly sure what they are—aliens? Robots? They look a little like they could be both. —Regardless, Steve spares a moment to punch it in what he’s relatively certain is its face.

“Window? Hawkeye?”

Natasha’s voice comes over the line, “Sorry, Cap, haven’t seen him in about twenty minutes.”

“Uuuh,” Clint says, “I think… there’s a small chance I may have accidentally hit him with one of my exploding arrows about five, seven minutes ago. It ricocheted off of one on these bastard’s chest plates.”

Before Steve can say anything, Clint continues:

“He was fine though! He called me an asshole and flew off!”

Steve’s jaw ticks but thankfully it feels like the battle is drawing to a close. 

Janet suggests a good spot to regroup and Steve jogs his way over after meeting to coordinate with the NYPD. When he arrives, he heads to where Natasha and Thor are using an overturned car as a makeshift bench. 

He checks in with them quickly, nodding when they say they’re fine. He’s about to turn to check in with Clint and a few of the recently arrived SHIELD agents when he hears a soft gasp. 

From the corner of his eye, he first spots Janet’s bright black and yellow costume. Then, as he does a double take, he sees Ironman, his bright red and gold unmistakable. But then he sees the blood covering Ironman’s bare face, sees the familiar, exhausted look in his eyes, sees _Tony_ and then he entirely forgets how to breathe.

Steve takes a lurching step towards his lover, who _isn’t supposed to be here_. Thoughtlessly, he breathes a worried, “Tony.”

Something like fear twists Tony’s face and, with the barest twitch of his head, he takes to the air.

In the time it takes for Steve to get back to the mansion he comes to several conclusions. The biggest being that he’s an idiot. The Avengers is _his team_. How the hell has he led this team for years, lived at Tony’s mansion for years, and yet never realized that he’s never actually seen Tony, his lover, in the same room as Ironman, his teammate? How did he ever think that Tony—strong, brave, charismatic, compassionate, brilliant, upstanding Tony—could ever sit idly by while someone else put their life on the line for him? _Of course_ it’s been Tony in the suit. The only other person he’d trust with it is Rhodey because he’s known Rhodey since he was seventeen. Tony wouldn’t ever just _hire_ someone to put on the suit. 

He tries to convince himself that it’s understandable he didn’t put the obvious together because, well, Ironman talks. But that’s not any excuse because Tony built his own fully functioning AI at twenty-five. How could he have not built some other AI to speak for him while he’s in the Ironman suit?

Steve takes a few deep breaths and rests his head against the back of the seat as the car starts to pull into the drive at the mansion. He mutters a quick, “Excuse me,” to the rest of the team and disappears to Tony’s lab before anyone can stop him. 

Even if he understands what he assumes is Tony’s reasoning, he still needs to assuage his remaining fears, answer his last few questions. But as he makes his way closer to the lab, he finds himself growing more and more furious. 

Why didn’t Tony tell him he was Ironman? Were there not ample opportunities? Shouldn’t he, as the leader, know about relevant medical conditions such as shrapnel in a teammate’s chest and implanted pacemakers? 

Steve slams through the lab door heedlessly. 

Tony jumps, something dropping to the floor. He bends to pick it up and, as he straightens, slams a hand down onto his workbench as he sways on his feet. 

Steve’s stomach drops out. 

Tony looks terrible: there’s dried blood on his neck and shirt; his face is a mess of cuts and bruises; one of his eyes is bright red where it’s supposed to be white; the bigger cuts have already been cleaned and butterflied shut. Tony presses whatever he dropped to his face; an ice pack wrapped in a grease stained towel. He doesn’t lift his eyes from Steve’s red uniform boots.

“Tony,” Steve whispers, feeling suddenly lost. He wants to gather Tony up in his arms and hold him until he stops looking like he’s waiting to get hit. 

Hesitantly, Tony raises his head. 

Steve almost reaches out to cup Tony’s face, but thinks better of it in the last minute. He gestures at Tony’s face and, not trusting his voice not to break in half, signs a simple, INJURY.

Tony stares, searching Steve’s eyes for a moment. Then, slowly, he pulls the ice pack away from his face. 

It looks even worse up close.

Steve winces and can’t stop his hands this time. They come up, fingertips grazing along Tony’s jaw. He doesn’t cup Tony’s face so much as his hands hover just above his skin, feeling the disproportionate warmth from the side that took the brunt of the arrow impact. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Steve finds himself asking. “Did anyone know?”

Tony doesn’t answer so Steve continues.

“I’m so mad at you,” Steve says, gently. “I’m fucking furious. And I think I’m most pissed about the fact that you just left without letting anyone check out your injuries. And I’m mad that this”—he raps at the arc reaction in Tony’s chest— “powers the suit _and_ you. What the fuck, Tony?”

Steve suddenly finds himself furious again. He pulls back, scrubbing his hands through his hair and pacing up and down the length of the nearby workbench.

He rants about Tony putting himself in danger, about being a leader who all apparently doesn’t actually know his team as well as he thought he did, about how not a single member on the team knew who Ironman was and did Tony understand how dangerous that is?

In the end, Steve sighs, exhausted and deflated. He says, quietly, “I care about you so damn much. I love you, you know that, right? You worried me today. It was the worst fucking feeling in the world.” 

Taking a deep breath, Steve asks, “Who did know? About you being Ironman? Why… why didn’t you tell _me_? Not as Captain America but as—as your lover. Was I just not important enough to trust with this?”

Arms crossed, Steve leans back into the workbench, trying to make himself small, as if that will take away some of the vulnerable weight of his last few questions.

He hears the soft clanking noise of something being placed on the tabletop by his hip. Cold hands cup his face. When he finally raises his eyes, Tony’s starting at him like he could pour his very heart into Steve’s chest if he only looked at him hard enough.

Tony rubs his thumbs against Steve’s cheek bones before he slowly pulls back and starts to sign. 

Steve watches as Tony explains about his life before the attempted assassination in Afghanistan, about his time with Yensen, about his suit, about Obie’s betrayal, about his abusive drunkard of a father. Steve watches until he can’t possibly stand to see Tony in so much pain anymore.

Gently, and with enough blatant movement that Tony could pull away if he felt the need to, Steve lays his hands over Tony’s, silencing the younger man.

“I get it, Tony. I do,” Steve says. “And you’re not any of those things people have said you are. You’re not an idiot. You’re not a monster. You’re just not.” 

Steve raises his hands to gently cup Tony’s tear stained cheeks. He continues, “You are the bravest, smartest, most beautiful person I know. And I’m not just talking about in terms of looks. You inherited your father’s company and, with it, all of his sins. And then when you realized you didn’t like what you had spent your entire life creating, you set out to change it. And you succeed. Do you know how amazing that is?”

Steve pulls Tony into his arms and buries his face against the uninjured side of Tony’s neck. “I love you so goddamn much, Tony. I’m not going to ask you to stop being Ironman; no one else could even compare. I just need you to make sure you come home to me in one piece, okay?”

Steve can feel a dampness against his neck where Tony’s hiding his face. He waits, let’s Tony have a few minutes as Steve holds on.

But then, after a few minutes of silence, a scratchy, hoarse voice says, “Steve.”

Steve stiffens immediately. _What… what the hell?_ Steve thinks, heart thrumming in his chest suddenly. _That… Is that… Tony?_

“Steve,” Tony again, voice still just as torn as the last time. “I love you.”

Steve closes his eyes tight, buries his face against Tony’s neck and sucks in a wet breath. He has to force the air around where his heart is suddenly lodged in his throat. He can’t speak. Tony’s already halfway there and Steve’s never been so desperate for someone to say they love him as much as he is right now. Doesn’t even chance taking in another breath in case it breaks whatever spell is allowing Tony to speak his Words right now.

“I love you, Steve,” Tony says at last, voice breaking in half.

_Fuck_ , Steve thinks, utterly shattered. He grabs at Tony, pulling him in and kissing him like he’s starving for it. 

But then Steve remembers Tony’s injured and he wants to punch himself in the face for forgetting. 

“Sorry!” Steve says, jerking back. “I forgot—uh, I forgot about your face.”

Tony snickers for a moment, breathlessly, but then winces, a hand pressing to his throat.

“Do you need—?” Steve starts, looking for the forgotten ice pack but Tony’s already grabbing it from the table and pressing it to his neck.

Steve stares in wonder at this impossible man. He can’t help but ask, “How?”

Tiny sets the ice pack down and signs, WEEKLY—THERAPIST—GO—I. PAST ME—SPEAK—WANT—YOU.

Steve’s heart twists in his chest in the best way. He reaches up and fumbles for the zipper on his jacket and the buckles off his harness. Pulling his harness off, Steve says, “You didn’t need to do that for me.”

Tony watches him, a confused look on his face as he starts to sign, WHAT?

Steve cuts him off, “I need—” but he doesn’t finish, finally managing to pull his jacket off. He stands, in his tee-shirt, and begins to pull at the edge of his cuff. He’s never purposefully shown it to anyone before. 

Tony’s hand whips out, catching Steve’s wrist before he can do more than start to roll the edge of the fabric cuff. 

Tony shakes his head, eyes wide.

But Steve’s never needed to show off his Words more than he does right at this moment. He leans into Tony’s space, brushing their lips together softly, and begs, “Please, let me show you.”

Finally, reluctantly, Tony nods. 

Steve rolls his cuff down and over his hand. After shoving it in his pocket, he grabs Tony’s hand and places it gently against his Words. With his free hand, he strokes across Tony’s side, where he knows Tony’s Words are.

“Look. Tony.”

He watches as Tony slowly opens his eyes, slowly moves his hand to reveal Steve’s soulmark, and slowly reads Steve’s Words. 

Steve aches to fill the silence. “I always thought—,” but then Tony’s grabbing him and kissing him, fierce and needy all in one.

Tony’s sign cuts him off, DON’T CARE.

Steve barely has time to smile before Tony’s kissing him again. Reality slams into Steve all over again: he’s Tony’s soulmate; Tony is _his_ soulmate.

When Tony pulls back, some interminable time later, he signs a simple, I LOVE YOU, and presses it to Steve’s chest. For as many times as Steve’s has said it aloud, this is the first time he’s gotten it back. Steve cups his hands around Tony’s, reverently.

He says, “I know. I’ve always known, in a way.” He kisses Tony again and says, “I love you, too. ... But don’t think this gets you off the hook for the whole ‘secretly Ironman’ thing.”

Tony just giggles, pressing his face into Steve’s shoulder.

—

Some weeks later, Steve is making breakfast in the communal kitchen. He’s got a skillet full of eggs, another full of hash browns and bacon. He’s hoping Tony will still be sleeping by the time he’s finished. Depending on how you mark it, it’s his and Tony’s one-year anniversary. 

Hearing footsteps, Steve turns and sees Natasha.

“Morning,” he greets.

Natasha hums, opening the fridge. She returns the greeting with an even, “Good morning.” She grabs out the orange juice and pours herself a glass. Leaning against the counter she watches him for a long moment. 

“Those are some Words you got there,” she says, unprompted.

Steve stills and looks down at his bare forearm. He hadn’t bothered putting his cuff on when he passed out the night before and he’d forgot to replace it when he left the room this morning. 

His Words stare up at him, their jagged edges absolutely beautiful. He grins.

Before Steve can respond to Natasha’s goading, a groan cuts in from the doorway, “Steve.”

Tony stumbles into the room, half-dressed and half-asleep. “Steve,” he says again, voice tight, as he moves into Steve’s space. He snakes his arms around Steve’s waist and buries his face in Steve’s shoulder.

Silently, Steve offers up his mug of coffee. 

Tony groans gratefully and whispers, half to the coffee and half to Steve, “I love you.”

He downs maybe half of it before handing it back. Voice scratchy, Tony says, “I love you, Steve.”

Steve beams pressing a kiss and a soft, “I love you, too,” into Tony’s hair.

Across the room, Natasha hums and murmurs a soft, “Fitting,” into her drink.

Tony raises his head and gives Natasha a smug smile. He taps his shoulder with his fingertips, circles his face with his index and middle fingers sticking out, then points at Steve.

CAPTAIN—HANDSOME—HIM.

Steve's face goes red, “Have you been calling me that this whole time?!”

Tony snickers and nuzzles his face back into Steve’s shoulder.

“Love, Steve,” he whispers.

Steve melts.

**Author's Note:**

> 'Ey! Ya made it to the end! There's a VERY small chance that I'll make a third part to this and just post coda/extra scenes but don't hold your breath: it might take another five years for that.
> 
> Also! My ASL sucks, so if someone who knows it better than me has any, like, con-crit for me, feel free to share!
> 
> ALSO, COMMENT IF YOU WANNA MAKE MY DAY!


End file.
